Forlorn
by Chavvah
Summary: (An odd one-shot) A lonely man is grieving over a loss, and sees a white-haired boy in a park. So why is the boy following him...?


**- Forlorn -**

Yu-Gi-Oh!

[Author's notes: This is a one-shot story on nothing in particular. The main character is a nameless and backgroundless original character (it's a male), so don't try and figure out who it is XD. I'm not sure what the purpose of the story is, but it hit me quite suddenly, and I somehow found it meaningful.

Don't think too hard--just read, and wonder.]

            ...Isn't it odd?

            The pain is still there; I can tell. The same pain that's greeted me when I woke up in bed alone, the same pain I felt when I sat down at the kitchen table with no one to speak to... It's still aching. 

            But today, I woke up differently. I suppose everything went with you, including my ability to grieve. I'm too tired now, even as my feet slide onto the frozen wooden floor and send shivers up my spine; I'm too tired to put up with the pain. All my tears have been wasted, and I've at last given in. Over such a long time, I thought it would never end. I thought I would die standing over the phone, screaming at you to earn you back. I spent hours trying to drive back this pain, trying to remind myself that it isn't drawing you any closer, but my wails are rebellious. They kept pealing from my mouth, every breath devoted to you.

            I'm still trying to get used to waking up with the other side of the bed left cold. No matter how hard I try to suppress my delusions, I cannot find the courage to simply roll to the center of the bed and claim my prize. I'm reserving it for you.

            For the hundredth time, I've wandered through this empty house. Everything's here. The TV, the furniture, the books, the tables and chairs...

            ...Who am I kidding? Every time I look at this house, it just seems more hopeless. It's all garbage. If you understood that, would you come home?

            I knot myself into a stiff chair, nodding off in the darkness. The sunlight from the window is being stifled through a dusty curtain, but the glare still hurts my eyes. If I had the strength to make coffee, I would, but I instead drearily wonder why it mattered. I wasn't going anywhere. I hadn't gone anywhere for all my life--thirty-seven years, and I don't have anything to show for it. There was once you. But we both know how that ended up.

            The phone is ringing now. Of course I know who it is, though I wish it were someone else. I numbly stumble from my seat, and limp to the phone. The rings throw me into a terrible headache, and I have to wince as my shaky fingers wrap around the phone. The click is dull and pointless to me as I lift the receiver to my ear.

            My boss has been wondering why I've stopped coming to work. How can I? In my mind, I can only think of the accursed question that everyone's doomed to ask me, and I weep when I realize the answer. None of them could understand what is happening to me, and the moment they politely inquire about my well being, I don't know how I will react. I'm afraid of myself; I'm fearful of the violence that could erupt from the threat of meddling. They would think they are being thoughtful, but they are fools. Never could they know...

            I have memorized how people act. They are all the same. They all smile at you, thinking that they are doing you a favor, secretly mocking each other's sadness. I hate watching other people being so happy, because I know now that it's a lie. The only smiles I see are to spite those who cannot wear the mask. I am alone, and I am unable to hide it. I wonder how people can keep going about their business when I'm in so much pain. My only strength comes from accusing them, and hating them, because they cannot see what is happening to me. 

            In one sense, I wish they'd see me. But I'm transparent. No one's going to drop what they're doing and run to me. No one's going to stop and sob along with me. They're going to continue living happily, and I wish they wouldn't. The only day I'm ever going to feel satisfied is the day when everyone is just as miserable as me. The day everyone loses someone like you, I'll be happy. For a little while.

            And then I'll remember you're gone.

            Please come home.

            I tell my boss that I'm sick. She doesn't believe me, and openly tells me that if I don't want to work, I can just quit. I bitterly tell her that I'll think about it, and hang up weakly. I almost turn to the table, but there are pictures of you there.

            I turn away and decide to go for a walk.

**********

            The schoolyard of a nearby high school is my only hope for sanity. I don't dare go anywhere where I know anyone, and watching children might calm my nerves. The day is too clear for my feelings, however--there are no clouds or omens in the sky. The sunlight is bright and hurtful, mocking the darkness growing inside of me. Everyone beyond this cold metal gate appears to feel differently, all dragging their lunches outside to the benches and tables. I'm keeping my distance, trying not to look suspicious. A visit from the police for watching high school students is the last thing I need.

            Why did I bother coming here? There is nothing for me here. I'm only reminded of our ignorance, and I take my leave.

            I have to ponder over whether there is any place better for me. I drag my steps onward for a block of two, passing a store and some houses, and eventually found myself passing a playground. I could--or rather, I wish I would--watch these children play in the sand, chasing at each other's heels and playfully screaming. But such play is meaningless to me, so I move my glance to across the street, where parents paid little or no attention to what their children were doing. They were so close to their children, yet at the same time, they seemed distant and cold.

            The children don't seem to mind. The sand and sunlight and swing sets keep them warm in place of their mother's lap. It is odd to think that when they grow older, the draft will slip through, and they will feel the cold that their parents are now expressing. They will be lonely someday. I smile bitterly at the thought of their doom, only to be instantly ashamed.

            I will allow them to be innocent for now.

            My eyes somehow wander to the swings, and I notice that one of them was still. There was someone sitting on it, but wasn't moving.

            I realized it was an older boy, probably from the high school nearby. He was sitting on the swing, his head limp and facing the ground in possible boredom. All that could be seen was his messy white hair. His hands clung to the chains at his sides, up by his head. He wore the blue uniform that the students from the high school were wearing. I could tell he was wearing a backpack as well.

            What was he doing out of school?

            And then he looked up at me. His eyes were wide and wild, suddenly lit up with despair and hope.

            I trembled nervously and turned away, startled by such a rapid transition. I hoped he lost interest, and I began to return on my path. I couldn't waste any more time out here. I was going home.

            My steps were quick and eager this time, no longer dragged down by my weariness. This time, there was a pang of fear driving me. I wanted to lose that eye contact as quickly as possible. The eyes the boy gave me were so haunting... I needed to erase the image away before it drove me mad. There was something to it that I couldn't identify there, as though he had finally found something. Had he been searching for me?

            I made my way down several blocks, finally feeling slightly calmed. I stopped for a moment to catch my breath, but off in the distance, I heard footsteps. Nervously, I turned my eyes only slightly in order to see over my shoulder.

            I was being followed. The white-haired boy was slowly limping along the sidewalk about a block away. He appeared intent on catching up with me.

            ...My pace became faster. Once I returned to my house, I locked the door.

**********

            It's strangely quiet. I was so sure that the boy would at least try to open the door or knock. He wouldn't have followed me this far and given up. There was strong will to follow me, and I can't accept that he gave up. I begin to worry, becoming suspicious of the silence that has been. Questions are coming to me faster than answers. Wearily, I wonder if I should look for him. I scold myself at the same time. Why are you so worried about someone who you haven't even met? I don't know anything about him, yet I'm worried sick.

            Could I run after him? I doubt it. It would seem and appear so silly to everyone who would watch. The despair I feel is coming back stronger now, now aching over the boy who followed me. With thorough anxiety, I place my cup of coffee down and peer out the window. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but all the same, what I did see shocked me.

            ...The boy was lying facedown on the sidewalk, completely still.

            My mind is swimming, and I fumble with the lock. What could have possibly happened? I have no time to blame myself for the condition I see him in. When the door swung open, I raced over to his side, feeling my heart pound from my chest.

            What do I do now? All I can do is kneel down and desperately try to turn him over. I paused after finding him heavy. Should I move him?

            Instead, I shakily go to his stiff arms and try to feel for a pulse. I sigh in confused relief, though I wasn't expecting him to be dead. I begin to move him again, heaving my weight backwards to pry him from the ground. He eventually lifted, the dirt from the sidewalk speckled across the pale complexion at his face. He was perfectly quiet.

            I struggled to lift his limp body, desperately looking for what could be wrong. My answer comes as I notice a splash of crimson blood on my pant leg. I notice that his left leg is tattered and bleeding. I know I shouldn't move a person who is injured, but I don't want to treat him outside. People can see me here.

            He's heavier than he looks, but I still lift him with a relative ease. I shuffle to the door, shoving it open with a sudden surge of strength. The boy's backpack seems deflated and empty, but I try not to pay any attention to it. His chest is propped up against mine, his numb limbs dangling under my clumsy grip. I can feel his heart's quick throbbing against my much stronger heartbeat, and I suddenly begin to feel very large. His size and proportions are so small compared to me... I feel like a giant. My instincts are screaming at me to be careful with this frail creature, but my nature is making it awkward. When I finally drop him to the carpeted floor in my living room, I realize I don't know anything about nurturing. He's bleeding all over my carpet, and I have no clue how to make it better.

            I come to my senses, and realize I should start at the beginning. I run to find a cloth not worth having anymore, before realizing I had no use for any of them. I simply grab one instead, stumbling back to the boy's side. I hear an audible groan from his lips while he lay on his back, and I see his eyes flutter drearily. I hastily swallow, ignoring his groans and wrapping the cloth around his torn calf. While I tie it, I hear him speak to me.

            His words are dizzy. "...Wh... Where am I?"

            I'm unsure how to answer. "You're safe," I finally manage. His glazed brown eyes stare back at me, a sudden look of sincere trust filling his expression.

            I clench my teeth and try hard to stop the bleeding at his leg. I can feel his body trembling with pain and fear. He continues to stare at me expectantly with his chocolate eyes.

            What does he expect from me? I shake involuntarily, keeping the cloth tight and pondering over my next move. I begin to shakily stand up, deciding to look in the medicine cabinet, hopefully for something that would help. His eyes never leave me.

            The pang comes once I enter the darkness and flip on the light, only to see my reflection in the front mirror. Too shaken to stare at myself, I throw open the cabinet and peruse for anything that could be of use to me.

            I begin to regret again. With this desperate gathering of items, I can't help but envy this boy's parents.

            I never had the chance to have my own child. I was never able to run in desperation to attend a child's ills, be it a scraped knee or a cold. There was never that sense of urgency and alarm, all in order to keep my child calm and safe. I had no chance to be a rescuer and a miniscule hero, triumphantly easing my child's pain.

            Once I shut off the light, a coil of bandages in my shaking hands, I return to wear the boy is sitting on the floor. He is sitting up now, doing most of the work himself. The pain didn't leave him defenseless, which eventually made me feel slightly useless. He could've been fine all alone, and didn't need me to run and retrieve things. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to even do. Watch, perhaps?

            There's a rattling knock at my door, and I freeze up. The boy ignores it. I drop the coil, thrown in a slight daze.

            I carefully turn around, beginning to approach the door. Another knock came, this time much louder.

            I don't know what happened. The weight was heavy, and it didn't hurt as it collapsed onto me. It was like a heavy blow of air, knocking me forward. It was blunt and hollow, dragging me down to the floor and the darkness. It wasn't until a second later that a headache began to throb, and by then, everything was gone.

***********

            Bakura grinned toothily until the pleasant glow of the Ring, his fingers delicately sliding over the wooden club. He happily caressed it, knowing that the blow was primitive, but realized that it was very effective. The man went out very easily.

            Bakura didn't even bother to stare at the man he had just knocked out, and threw off the empty backpack. He lazily dropped the club inside the flap, and stepped around his victim to reach the door.

            The door popped open with a rush of air. Malik Ishtar was standing impatiently in front of him, wearing a rather annoyed look. Bakura took no notice, having seen this look before. "Free stuff!" Bakura announced, stifling a cackle as he turned back inside. Malik gloomily stepped in, saying nothing. He indifferently looked around the house, also looking to the man who lay unconscious on the floor.

            "...This is so very legal," Malik sarcastically muttered, stepping over the man tentatively.

            "Quit being a wuss and help me find something worth taking," Bakura snapped at him from across the room. Bakura had found a desk, and was greedily digging through the drawers in hopes of finding valuables. Malik pretended not to hear him, and turned his glance to the kitchen. Curiously, he noticed there was something on the table, and cautiously approached it.

            Amongst the sounds of Bakura digging through papers in the other room, Malik stared at a collection of photographs displayed on the table. Confused, he turned to direct his voice towards the living room.

            "Bakura, are you sure this guy lives alone?"

            "...Positive," Bakura grunted, suddenly letting out a cheerful bark to proclaim the discovery of a wallet.

            Malik looked back at the pictures and frowned, picking one up. It was a wedding photo with the man who lay on the floor and a younger woman.

            Bakura was sick of his delay. "C'mon! We don't have all day to do this!"

            Malik sighed and dropped the photo.

            Bakura was still browsing the area, trying to go for the smallest and most valuable things he could find, then would accordingly drop it in the backpack. He had already discovered a wallet, and was now looking for expensive decorations. Everything that was small enough to fit was tossed in, unless the quality of the piece demanded to be handled more carefully.

            Bakura's eyes fell onto an item that gleamed steadily in the sunlight of a window. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a ring sitting on the coffee table. He picked it up and examined it, wondering why it was sitting out in the open.

            Bakura shrugged and slipped it onto his own finger.

            "He won't miss it."


End file.
